Author Archives: marcogibbo

Friendship

Ed Lahey was the king of Montana poetry for me, and I really wanted to meet him. So, reluctantly, I made the effort to go introduce myself, intrude upon his privacy. He lived desperately alone. Ed invited me in under … Continue reading

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What Art Is

My son did one of those Pollack dribble paintings on cardboard, a masterpiece of texture, color, and warp. I stuck it on the basement wall. What is art? Throw shit and see what sticks . . . throw hard enough … Continue reading

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News From the Front

Light on landscape is art if someone sees it that way. Sound is music to those who hear it, the heater fan’s whir backed up by Dylan and the engine’s purr, maybe your voice joining the choir in your head … Continue reading

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Whiskey Boxes Floating in the Middle of the Air

Mongo waltzes whiskey barrels up a plank- ramp into the old, barn-red Dodge coupe’s trunk. His crouch-n’-dig stance like a lineman pushing a blocking sled or a lumper lift- grunting a gun safe up a staircase one riser-bump thrust at … Continue reading

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Taking Steps

—for gary lundy aware cocky youth knows no hand rails umbrellas no spare anythings it collects itself throws down shots and dreams gobbles rain or sun- shine so it grows wants and deals out the naked hour youth dances to … Continue reading

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Ciara

Mist, the marine layer rolls along the ridge behind Ventura, the slope green from fires last fall. A bi-plane circles overhead, momentarily drowning out the construction clatter and whine of table saws and saws-alls, air compressors, a chainsaw, generators, planers, … Continue reading

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The Pagan Ghost

Ed Lahey speaks, crawls out today from my berserkly pit of copper verse despair, spits-up the green blood of my cabbage patch mind. He strides down Galena, eyes squinting through dirt, smells a gaggle of gold geese, horny as Old … Continue reading

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LATE SNOW

You won’t mow The grass today This morning 8 inches of heavy Wet snow – Branches drooping Several broken The roses frozen Your neighbor weeps Her garden buried Silent & white You wonder What happened To the birds – The … Continue reading

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Laundry Sutra

sheets bulky warm no extra rinse Luna purrs in her bed not enough whatever she needs to stand and walk over to me have me scratch her head Psychedelic Pill fills my ears and water runs in the house pipes … Continue reading

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THE MOUNTAIN

We are the walking wounded, blow upon blow, day upon day, we cringe, gird, panic, and endure. The grass is greener, of course, until you crest the ridge and tromp through knapweed down to the dry creek bed. For every … Continue reading

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